


War

by MixterGlacia



Series: Soldiers Of The Fall [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Coping, Enemies to Partners, M/M, Nightmares, Past Relationship(s), Post Season 15, Song Lyrics, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:18:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MixterGlacia/pseuds/MixterGlacia
Summary: Locus finds a letter in his mail one day. It contains cryptic lyrics and a note. "We need to talk."





	War

**Author's Note:**

> eyyyy for once it's not MaineWash, or an AU! How about that, huh?

The first note is discovered when Locus is going through his current alias’ mailbox. The paper isn’t crisp, but there’s a clear exactness to the way it’s folded over itself. The same can be said of the cryptic contents within.

 

 _[‘Do you_ _remember _ _standing on a broken field_

 _White_ _crippled _ _wings beating the sky_

 _The harbingers of war with their_ _nature revealed_

 _And our_ _chances_ _flowing by’]_

-We need to talk.

 

The writing is, at a glance, flawless. When Locus looks more closely, there’s a delicate tremble running throughout the pen strokes. The only thing that’s clear cut is that the bulk of it is made up of song lyrics. Probably some locals pulling a prank. A small part of him wants to save the letter, for some reason.

 

Locus elects to burn it instead.

* * *

 

He’s on another Earth-controlled planet when the datapad is slipped to him. The man hardly gets anything at this place, so he’s not ‘blown away’ when the text flickers to life. Unprepared, yes. Awestruck, no.  

 

 _[‘If I can let the_ _memory_ _heal_

 _I_ _will remember_ _you with me on that field_

 

 _When I_ _thought_ _that I fought this war alone_

 _You were there by my side on the_ _frontline_

 _When I_ _thought_ _that I fought without a cause_

 _You gave me a reason to_ _try _ _’]_

-Not as hard to track as you think you are.

 

Well, if they found Locus predictable, they were going to learn just how elusive he could _really_ be if he put his mind to it. The ex-mercenary leaves everything but his armor and vanishes into the night.

* * *

 

Locus has come to the understanding that his enigmatic letter writer is equally equipped to roam the universe as he himself is. The song gradually winds its was towards its end, be it on paper, digital media, or in one instance a singing-telegram service. (The poor sap almost pissed himself when Locus came to the door.)

 

If he can’t put a stop to it, Locus might as well put forth _some_ effort in deciphering the meaning of it all.

 

While it was simple to find the song that contained the lyrics, Locus is doubtful it will help him in the long run. He’d started to pick up on a trend running through the whole debacle. Locus pulls out a pen, noting the underlined words and which notes they belonged to.

 

**1st) WORDS- Remember, Crippled, Nature revealed, chances. NOTE- We need to talk.**

**2nd) WORDS- Memory, Will remember, Thought, Frontline, Thought, Try. NOTE- Not as hard to track as you think you are.**

**3rd) WORDS- Something new, Torn, Stunted view, Dogs, Memory heal, Remember. No note, just an outdated map of North America.**

**4th) SINGER- Kid handed me the directions he was given. WORDS- Thought, Alone, My side, Impossible, War, Without, Reason why. NOTE- Having a good trip through the stars?**

 

Then the fifth arrived on a flashdrive. It was a clip of the rest of the song set to footage of Chorus. The words were superimposed over top of the video, underlines still present as in all before it.

 

 _[‘With no-one_ _wearing their real face _

_It's a_ _whiteout_ _of emotion_

 _And I've_ _only got_ _my brittle bones_ _to _ _break the_ _fall_

 

 _When the love in_ _letters_ _fade_

 _It's like moving in_ _slow_ _motion_

 _And we're_ _already too late_ _if we arrive at all_

 

 _And then_ _we're caught_ _up in the_ _arms race_

 _An_ _involuntary _ _addiction_

 _And we're shedding_ _every value _ _our mothers taught-]_

 

Suddenly the video shifts to the footage of Felix monologuing to the-...no. There’s no way they could have pulled this off...could they?

 

 _[‘-So will you_ _please show _ _me_ _your_ _real_ _face _ _-]_

 

Then it shows a scan of the North American map he’d been given. As the last of the words flash by, it slowly zooms in. By the time it stops, Locus feels like a fool for not connecting the dots sooner.

 

 _[-Draw the_ _line_ _in the horizon_

 _Cos I_ _only need_ _your name_ _to call_ _the_ _reasons why_ _I fought.’] _

 

The ending goes unheeded by Locus because the map is centered on _Washington State._ The theme of emphasizing terms relating to thought and memory all makes sense now. As if he was unsure if Locus had finally come to the solution himself, an all too familiar steel and yellow gauntlet slides a datapad into the feed of the map with clear coordinates. Below is a final, rather slyly worded note.

 

_-Memory is the Key, Locus. Don’t keep making me wait._

* * *

 

When Locus approaches the rendezvous spot, he notices that someone (Presumably Washington.) had taken great care in selecting the site. It wasn’t in the middle of a field where snipers like himself would feel on edge. Yet, it isn’t caged in by the region's well-known mountain ranges. It was a fairly young forest, with trees unsuitable for gunners to take as vantage points.

 

Leave it to ever paranoid Washington to be sure he had at least _some_ form of advantage, regardless of however minor it may be. Anything to compensate for that perceived lack of skill.

 

Speaking of the agent, Locus hears a shrill whistle and whips around. Washington is beckoning the cloaked man over, seemingly uncaring if it looked like he was waving at thin air to anyone who didn’t know better.

 

Locus hesitates before dropping his invisibility and it takes a shamefully large amount of restraint to suppress a childish pout. “I am unsure why I even bother at this point, if you just continue to spot me.”

 

"Can't be sure myself. " Washington’s voice sounds rough, like the bad end of a faulty transmission. It couldn’t just be the helmet to blame, not when Locus had witnessed the crimson spraying from the agent’s throat first hand.

 

_Locus was pushing A’rynasea as fast as it could manage with one hand. The other was occupied with trying to keep pressure on Washington’s wounds. The agent lets out a wet sounding whine, struggling to move. Before Locus can push him back down, he makes out the man trying to speak._

 

_“Mn? Mhn?” There’s not much beyond that, as the hospital looms ever closer in Locus’ line of sight_

_-_

_Locus hid, unseen by the staff and listened to what the doctor was going to report to the Reds and Blues._

 

_“So he’s getting the hang of that new vocalizer I whipped up for him, now that he’s coming around from the anesthesia. Hey, Parker, did you catch the one that dropped him here?”_

 

_The medi-vac pilot glances at her like this was a frankly silly thing to ask, and shakes his head._

 

_“Well that sure is a shame, huh? He keeps asking for us to go find Maine and wants to know what the deal with his new armor is!”_

 

_Locus freezes._

 

_“Buuuut, he’s also having an ‘Autotune fight with the Autobots’ in his words, so it’s probably nothing!”_

 

“Hey, Earth to Locus? You went all quiet. Not even your broody kind, either.” Washington has moved right up to the edges of Locus’ massive personal space bubble.

 

The former mercenary clears his throat, still coming off a touch sheepish. “My apologies, Agent Washington-”

 

“You know it’s okay to use Wash, right?”

 

Locus huffs a bit, looking off into the forest. “Why are we here?”

 

“Because you saved me.” The freelancer leans on a tree trunk, visor not hiding how he intensely watched Locus’ every move. “I’d like a chance to say thanks.”

 

“You tailed me across the cosmos to say that?”

 

Washington laughs like a worn down toy’s voice box. (Likely because he now spoke with one.) It wasn’t like the old footage Locus had snatched from the PFL servers. Before he would laugh in this breathy way that sounded like sunshine felt. Locus tries to shake that comparison from his mind, frowning.

 

“Of course I didn’t. You forgot to yank the standard issue GPS out of that new helmet of yours. Simmons gave me a hand in tracking it. I’d send you something once you stayed put for more than a month.”

 

“Fuck.” Locus hissed to himself. He was getting lazy now that Fel-...hmph.

 

Washington shrugs. “I’ve also got an offer for you.”

 

Locus waves in a ‘well don’t let me stop you.’ way.

 

“I’ve got a place you can use. I don’t stay there, so I want you to have it.” The agent kicks over a rock at his feet.

 

Locus scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t need your charity. I’m not poor by _any_ stretch of the imagination.”

 

“Did I _call_ you poor?” the older man challenges. “I’d feel better knowing you’re nearby.”

 

The ex-mercenary sighs, turning on his heel. “Is that all, Agent Washington?”

 

“For now. Here.” Washington chucks a ring of keys to Locus. “I know you have my contact info, so keep in touch, yeah?”

 

“We will see. Goodbye, Agent.”

 

“See you soon.”

* * *

 

Locus found the cabin convenient. He had no other reasons for why he stayed as often as he did. (He had many reasons.) It was well stocked with dry firewood, electricity, and a spacious kitchen to make it comfortable for extended use. The first time Locus wandered into the house, he was taken aback that the fridge was brimming with his favored foods.

 

Locus likes to think he’s not a fool. He’s mulling over the discovery in his mind when he hears the distinctive crunch of tires on snow. In an instant, he’s cloaked and slinks out the back.

 

There’s a beat up SUV out front and it doesn’t take a sniper's eye to spot Washington in civilian clothes sliding out of the cab. Locus silently stalks around so Washington is sandwiched between himself and his cabin. Locus _knows_ better. Locus _knows_ the agent is too aware of his surroundings, but still he reaches out for the freelancer’s throat as he checks his phone.

 

Just before he can make contact, “Evening, Loc’s.”

 

Locus goes still on the snowy drive. Silence reigns for many long moments. “Why are you doing this.”

 

Washington glances over his shoulder at the invisible sniper. “Because I’ve been there, Locus.”

 

“Not your problem.”

 

There’s a scoff, wispy clouds escaping Washington’s teeth. “I don’t care. You need someone on your side. I know I did.”

 

That gives Locus pause. His silhouette shimmers before fading into nothing. With some thought, he settles he hand hovering near Washington’s chin onto his shoulder. This soldier was watching out for him, the sheep standing guard over the sleeping wolf.

 

Locus finds the attention is not unwelcome.

* * *

 

Washington turns up a few weeks later, one small bag at his side. “I just need some time off from the Reds and Blues. Let me go set up the futon, can you get the fire going? A storm’s rolling in sometime tonight.”

 

Locus nods quietly, trying to stamp out the panic bubbling up into his throat. _‘Washington isn’t going to care about seeing your face.’_ He scolds himself. _‘You get to see his face, it’s only fair.’_

 

There’s a pathetic, rusty shriek of hinges when Washington pulls at the frame of the longer of the two couches. After a minor struggle, it gives up, flopping open  The freelancer rasps out a chuckle. “Y’know, this is the only thing I have from before I enlisted. Kept it in a storage unit we all shared during PFL.” Something shifts in his tone so subtly it almost went over Locus’ head. “Everything here used to be in it. I couldn’t stand to see it rotting away in there.”

 

Locus glances around with a deeper understanding, and things make a bit more sense. “Are you willing to elaborate?” He asks while striking a match to set the tinder alight.

 

The futon creaks loudly when Washington sits on it. “Yeah, I can. The stuff in the kitchen came from pretty much everyone outside of Tex. Even the freelancers the Director didn’t give a shit about, Like West and Indi’s crew. The table was C.T.’s that’s why it’s covered up. She used to stab the shit out of it when she was learning knife skills. The butcher block is hers too, but she took good care of it for obvious reasons. The bed’s Carolina’s, didn’t even remember we had that unit when I asked to go get everything from it.” The older man smiles softly, staring up at the ceiling.

 

“York had the barstools, the chairs at the table were Wyoming’s. Florida had the other couch, and a few of the quilts. The deck chairs were from Illinois. North had a couple bookshelves. South had the footlockers and the old ass TV.” Washington's voice wavers, going faint. “...Maine had the rest of the blankets and the dressers.”

 

Locus resolutely focuses on arranging the logs, watching how the sparks swirl throughout the hearth.

 

“You look like him…” is whispered, as if the freelancer is scared to admit to it. “...but your skin is darker, less scars, more hair. Your eyes, they’re the biggest difference. His were like those little bits of amber they sell at museums.” Washington's voice trembles. “Sorry…”

 

Locus shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s quite apparent he meant a great deal to you, so I consider it a compliment.” He sneaks a glance over his shoulder.

 

Washington has thrown an arm over his eyes, but the corners of his mouth draw up into a wistful smile. “That’s what I was going for with it.”

 

The fire pops, and the conversation ends.

* * *

 

Locus is startled awake by a panicked, broken scream. When he throws open the door, pistol in hand, he sees Washington arching off the futon, fingers clawing at the back of his neck.

 

“Agent Washington.” The ex-mercenary tries, stalking over to the freelancer. “Agent Washington!”

 

The noises that tumble from Washington can’t be classified as words. In the dark of night, it’s all too clear how lasting the damage had been. Locus can’t let this continue, lest Washington lose what little recovery he had. The man strides forward, grabbing an arm as it swings out without a thought.

 

Washington’s eyes fly open, still foggy with sleep. He expertly breaks Locus’ grip before twisting the younger man’s arm violently.

 

On reflex, Locus jerks away, thankful that Washington didn’t have the leverage or brute strength to snap his wrist. “ _Wash!_ ”

 

The freelancer stills, blinking up at him in confusion. “Who?” He sounds even more off than before.

 

“You. I was speaking to you.”

 

“Use my name then, dipsit. You the new rookie, or something? Name’s Church, so get it right next time.” Washington scowls at him in a way that is very unlike himself.

 

Locus wished he was less understanding of what was going on, but the freelancer wasn’t the only one with wicked night terrors. In that mindset, anyone could lose themselves. The key difference was that Locus didn’t have someone else's memories to sift through. Maybe he could help somehow.

 

“No, I’m not a new recruit, and your name is not Church. You go by Washington. You are in your cabin in the middle of a snow storm.” Locus is treading carefully, wary of how the older man would react.

 

Washington just searches him with a haughty air of suspicion. “I’m just expected to buy into that?”

 

On a hunch, Locus points to the mirror hanging behind the living room. “Look at yourself, if you don’t.”

 

Washington tsk’s, lazily throwing a look over his shoulder, then double takes. “I-what the fuck?” Then he looks at his hands, flexing them many times, like they’re a puzzle in need of solving. Eventually, Locus can see the haze dissipate from his eyes. Once more he searches Locus for something only Washington knows.

 

“I had a nightmare, didn’t I?”

 

Locus nods, stopping Washington, predicting his reaction. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. I’m glad I could help out.”

 

In the dark cabin, Washington looks so very small. His eyes are watery, catching the barest hints of light. “...Will you stay with me?”

 

There’s not even a fraction of hesitation before Locus says, “Of course.” He sits carefully at the edge of the futon, not expecting a trembling hand to close around his arm.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Sharing a bed with Washington is so fundamentally different from sharing a bed with Felix, it gives Locus emotional whiplash. Felix usually needled him relentlessly, only stopping when he had what he wanted from Locus. (Sex, usually.) When he eventually _did_ sleep, Felix as always jabbing with an elbow or a knee, all points and hard edges.

 

Washington allowed Locus the space he always craved. All he seemed to require was to hold onto Locus’ hand until he fell back to sleep. That was some how intensely more intimate than anything Felix had ever done to Locus. Maybe it was that Washington let Locus decide for himself. It bothered Locus too much to think about it.

* * *

 

Locus learned many things from the year that followed.

 

Locus always felt the cabin was too big when Wash wasn’t visiting.

 

Wash showed up every other Sunday with fresh food.

 

Locus worried more than he should about Wash’s safety.

 

Wash had a caffeine problem.

 

Locus had adjusted to civilian life better than Felix said he could.

 

Wash liked to sit on the same couch as Locus, but didn’t touch without his permission.

 

Locus liked how Wash curled against his side when he did give permission.

 

Wash wanted to help him get better, but allowed Locus to decide if he was alright with going to a therapist.

 

Locus realized he might have gotten in too deep when he stopped calling Wash ‘Agent Washington’ in his head.

 

Wash liked Locus for the ways he _wasn’t_ Maine, rather than liking him for the ways they were the same.

 

Locus liked Wash. He liked him quite a lot.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, the song is War by Poets of The Fall.


End file.
